Combat-Ready
by gwybodaeth
Summary: A 'what-if' story conceived while playing Nancy Drew: The Silent Spy. What if the documents Nancy found under the train station had said something different? What if the same person who killed her mother was after her now? What would Nancy do to put right what happened all those years ago?


It was suddenly very quiet. No more footsteps from above, no more distant trains—even her own breathing ceased to register. All she could feel was the intense tightness in her chest. Surprise, disgust, sadness, fear—and anger. She had found out only a week ago that her mother was a spy, found out she had been murdered, been thrust into a tangled world where nothing was as it seemed and no one could be trusted. But it was only now, as she saw the documents which revealed the identity of her current nemesis and of her mother's killer that the last vestige of idealism in Nancy finally died.

She had seen the worst of human nature, foiled criminal after criminal, and still she acted like an ingénue, the perpetual innocent. She stumbled through her cases, no real plan, no defense, just one unlikely escape after another. People had even tried to kill her, more than once, and Nancy could see now that it was only luck that kept her alive.

Now she knew what she had to do, and finally she had the resolve to carry it through.

* * *

She spent the afternoon at the abandoned Brae Arena, training herself to execute the final part of her plan. The dummy swung as she struck at it, again and again, her aim getting better. She had drawn a small target on its chest with magic marker, a mark that had been obliterated now, along with much of the dummy's casing. Who knew hitting a precise spot was so hard?

In fact, she hadn't known the first thing about any of this that morning. Luckily, the internet really did seem to know everything, even things it shouldn't. She had known enough to use an internet café with public computers, and not her own device. From there, it was shockingly easy to find out just how to stab someone.

Anatomical diagrams, the most suitable type of blade, where to buy and how to grip a knife—the internet provided it all. Stabbing was not her first choice. Nancy never thought she would be able to kill someone in such a personal and visceral way. But then again, she hadn't thought she could kill anyone at all. This was the most practical way, given the lack of time for preparation, and Nancy was finally going to start being practical.

* * *

That evening, Nancy sat in Moira's small but homey living room. She thought she would say good-bye to her, before getting on with what she had to do. They talked about all sorts of things—Moira's eclectic taste in music, tea sets, her mother, and her father.

As Moira talked about her father, taking her away from Scotland, cutting her off from her mother's best friend, Nancy looked sad.

"I understand why dad did what he did, but it's such a shame," she commented, a bit misty-eyed. "It would have been nice to hear about her from you, growing up."

"Yes dear, that would have been nice. But at least we can make up for lost time! She loved you so much, and I can see why…"

Nancy choked up, and Moira put down her teacup and rose. She took Nancy's hands, pulling her up into a warm hug, holding her like an aunt might hold a young and upset niece.

* * *

"There, th—"

Moira gasped, her breath forced from her lungs. She stumbled back, almost falling, staring in utter astonishment at the knife protruding from where it had slid cleanly between her ribs.

There was no time for words, for defense, for confession. Just one understanding glance between the two of them as the blade which had pierced the center of Moira's heart stopped it beating.

The woman who had betrayed her mother, and who Nancy was now sure had killed her with her own hand, lay staring, unseeing, up at the dingy ceiling.

* * *

Nancy left the house quietly. She had wiped her prints from the knife, from the teapot and cream jug. Putting on a pair of sturdy rubber gloves, she thoroughly washed the cup she had drunk from, putting it back in the cupboard. Any other prints could be left, as they might have gotten there any time in the previous few days.

Taking care to imagine a fight in her head, and to act out her motions as they occurred, Nancy tossed the room. Not too much, that would make it obvious. A knocked-over chair, a broken saucer—little more. She stood back. Just right.

Thankful Moira had no neighbors, Nancy carefully locked and drew the door almost to. Reaching in with a refashioned wire coat hanger, she painstakingly reapplied the security chain. That done, she closed the door, retreated a pace, whirled and gave it a hearty kick.

The warped door flew open, flimsy lock breaking, cheap security chain snapping. And now the stage was set. Moira Chisholm, prominent journalist, killed by intruders unknown. She hoped this would be the inferred motive, as the woman didn't own enough to make it look like a convincing burglary.

* * *

After she was gone, a redheaded woman wearing black slipped inside. She looked around approvingly. Young Ms. Drew had acquitted herself well. There was no mess to clean up, not even any overlooked evidence to dispose of before the local constabulary got round to visiting this God-forsaken bit of empty country. However, she did have evidence of her own to dispose of.

Methodically, the woman walked around the tiny house, removing microphones and cameras. Leaving the way she had come, she thought about what she had just seen.

She had been unprepared for it. She had just figured out Chisholm was the one they wanted, and had been about to execute a bag and drag when the Drew girl had showed up. In a van down the street, she fidgeted, waiting impatiently for her to leave.

The emotions had seemed genuine, a tentative friendship beginning—hell, even the tears had looked real. She gasped out loud when she saw the knife.

_Christ._

It had been professional, and under difficult personal circumstances. No exposition, no 'I know what you did', just the required action. Quick and clean—cold. And the clean-up was just as well-done. They spent the better part of a year teaching an agent to set a scene like that, let alone the time and effort it took to train someone to calmly kill.

Zoe Wolfe smiled a little.

_She's ready._

* * *

The next day, a file housed within a server located in Langley, Virginia was changed to read:

_Kestrel has exhibited the decision-making skills and the tactical experience necessary for field work. Combined with her already extensive skillset, she is more formidable than most fully-trained operatives. Combat-ready. Strongly recommend for immediate recruitment._


End file.
